THE RETURN OF BEAU CARTER
by Shellecah
Summary: My warm and sincere thanks to everyone who took their valuable time to read my first Gunsmoke story. I am heartily inspired by your kind welcoming reviews, and hope you enjoy my next story, The Return of Beau Carter: The gunman whose name raised a fracas returns to Dodge, propelling Matt, Chester and Kitty into unexpected adventure, with Doc as ever their mainstay.


The rider coming into Dodge sat his horse like a cavalryman, his back straight as a ramrod. He reined in and dismounted in front of the marshal's office, where Chester, whittling stick in hand, leaned against a post.

A small man, the stranger moved with careful precision. Chester watched him, pondering where he'd seen the still even features, set mouth and expressionless eyes before.

"The marshal in?" the man asked, his speech distinct and wary.

Chester nodded and moved to open the door, the stranger following.

"You have a visitor, Mr. Dillon," Chester said.

The marshal looked up from the paperwork at his desk. The man appeared familiar in a disturbing way, and Matt didn't offer a greeting.

"I come to ask a favor, Marshal," the stranger said.

"Yes?"

"A gunman's tracking me here. Aims to kill me. He's not far off."

"What's your name, Mister?" said Matt.

"Carter. Beau Carter."

" _That's_ where we seen you," said Chester. "The Long Branch. The night Parker Mims shot Dan Flack."

Matt pushed back his chair and moved from behind his desk. "This gunman wanted for anything?"

"Not him. He's a crafty one."

 _"You_ want the l _aw_ to protect you?" Matt said.

Chester crossed his arms and stepped closer to Carter, studying on every word to tell Doc and Miss Kitty.

One side of Carter's mouth curved up stiffly in his blank face. "I was fast with a gun, Marshal. Real fast. Got my hand near shot off bounty huntin'." Dead dark eyes looking up at Matt, Carter extended a small sun-browned hand as though to shake howdy. The back of his hand caved noticeably, marred by a prominent scar.

"Can't shoot straight now," Carter said. "Even workin' the fingers gives me misery."

"When this . . . he—" Matt said.

"His name's Yance Ratchet." said Carter. "You heard of 'im?"

"I've heard the name . . . ."

"They say there's none faster with a gun," said Chester. "He's cunning; always gets away with it.

"I read it in the papers," Chester said, when Matt gave him a questioning look. "There's a whole book on—"

"When this Ratchet gets to Dodge," Matt said, "I can tell him to keep moving. He's not wanted ; I won't jail him. Even if he refuses to leave town."

"Why's he gunnin' for you, you can't draw fast no more?" said Chester.

"He robbed the Wells Fargo once," said Carter, his large empty eyes not swerving from Matt's face. "I happened by after when he was camped out sleepin'. I seen the bag of gold coins with the big letters printed on. He had the bag against his face comfortable. I take the gold; he wakes up goes for his gun; I shoot 'im in the belly. Reckon he took it personal.

"I've gone straight, Marshal." Matt detected a rueful note in the soft-spoken monotone. "Made a pot of money bounty huntin'," Carter said. "I mean to settle. Always figured Dodge might be the town, only you run me out first time I was here."

"Your name got two men killed, Carter," Matt said. "You stay here, there'll be trouble. I'll tell Ratchet to keep moving when he gets here, and I'm telling you now."

Carter's mouth jerked up again on one side, tight-lipped. He turned his gaze from the marshal and looked at Chester, who stepped back, disconcerted. Carter's large round eyes were unsettling.

"I got a right," Carter said, looking back up at Matt. "You can't make me leave."

"Ratchet will gun you down in the street," Matt said. "Where's the sense in that."

"Not if you . . . ." Carter glanced fleetingly out the window, then with a visible effort returned his gaze to Matt. "Not if you do what a lawman does."

"You mean protect you. Carter, I have this whole town to protect. Ride out of here now, you have a chance of shaking him off your tail. If you stay in Dodge, you'll be an open target."

"I could wait in the jail here. He'll look for me here . . . by-the-by. When he goes to shoot me, you or your man here gun 'im down. He's a murderer many times over, Marshal. Think you'd want to dig his grave."

"I don't want to dig any man's grave," Matt said.

"Reckon you figure the marshal and me pass the day long here," said Chester. "What if Ratchet comes on you alone in the jail?"

"I can shoot tolerable with my left . . . maybe." Carter adjusted the holster on his left hip. "Practiced some. Strange; a man can't use the hand he was born to shoot with."

"If Ratchet comes here for you, I'll try and take him alive," Matt said.

"Why," said Carter.

"I'm no executioner. You want my protection, we do it my way."

"You take him alive, jail 'im two, three days, give me time to run from him some more. You 'll turn 'im loose, he'll track me. It won't stop 'til he gets me. I can't ambush him alone, Marshal. I hide out in a jail cell here, could be I can shoot 'im with my left, him comin' straight at me close range."

"You wanna bunk down here, go ahead," Matt said. "I won't kill this man unless I have to. I don't care what happens to you, Carter. Your kind is nothing but trouble."

Carter turned his eyes again to Chester, who was ready this time and averted his head. "I'll stopover in your jail here, then," said Carter.

The marshal had ordered Chester not to lose sight of Yance Ratchet. Chester was afraid of the gunman, and trailed him around Dodge at a far distance.

"You'll know who he is when you see 'im," Carter had said. "He looks like a skinny long-legged coyote."

Chester followed Ratchet from Grimmick's livery to Dodge House to Delmonico's to the Long Branch. Ratchet headed out of town as the sun set, walking toward Boot Hill. Chester weighed risking Matt's disapproval against following Ratchet to the graveyard, as Mr. Dillon had said not to report back to the marshal's office until the gunman retired for the night.

An image of Twitchin' Jack Combes carried off by a fit and fresh buried magnified the dread of Ratchet. Chester took a long breath and continued moving quietly through the tall prairie grass toward the headstones. Better to track the gunman to the graveyard than have Mr. Dillon take Chester for a coward.

A scattered wood of elm and hickory trees, and one giant oak stood on Boot Hill. Warm breeze rustled the leaves. Solid darkness had set in, shrouding the headstones, and as Chester thought how Ornery Bill Hotchkins had spooked him even in life, he suddenly froze, then looked frantically around the graveyard. He'd lost sight of the gunman.

Matt was relieved when the time came for his nightly walk through town, checking doorknobs and looking through windows. The job gave him an excuse to escape Beau Carter and his empty watchful eyes.

The marshal had seen fear enough times to recognize it. Carter was no longer the proud man who'd remounted without complaint and ridden out of Dodge. Ratchet scared him and aloneness scared him, and his dependence made the marshal restive. Matt didn't like Carter; the marshal disliked all gunmen. Reformed or injured notwithstanding, disorder followed in their wake.

As Matt came to the end of Front Street, he saw Jonas walking in from the outskirts of town.

 _"Marshal,"_ Jonas waved and hurried over to Matt.

"Jonas," said Matt. "Something wrong?"

"Marshal, I know I oughtn't to meddle, but can you at least _talk_ to Chester? I mean, he works for you."

"Talk to him about what?" Matt was unconcerned. The storekeeper was nervous and easily lost patience with Chester.

"The way he prowls the streets at night," said Jonas. "With no gun yet. I don't want to be the one to say it, Marshal, I surely don't, but he needs to be more careful. I'd tell him, but he wouldn't pay me no mind. You see I carry a gun when I leave the town proper at night." Jonas patted the butt of the gun in his belt. "Been visiting. Just a short walk to the house yonder."

Matt felt a twinge of anxiety. "You saw Chester leave town?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Marshal. Just now saw him walking real quiet, up near Boot Hill like he was huntin' rabbit, only who goes huntin' at night, and he had no gun.

"It's not like Chester, Marshal." Jonas vehemently shook his head. "To pay his respects to the dead at this hour. He said just yesterday how it prickled him thinking of Twitchin' Jack Combes flopping in the dirt like a catfish, gasping out his last—"

Matt stopped the storekeeper with a hand on his arm. "You better get home, Jonas."

"Oh, you don't have to tell _me_ twice _. This_ man has sense anyway." Jonas thumped a finger to his head. "I hope Chester's not got into mischief, but who knows when you let Beau Carter hide out at the jail! But like I said, Marshal, it's not my place to meddle!"

Chester sensed someone behind him, then a hand clapped over his mouth, and he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel press his temple.

"Why're you followin' me," a voice like dirt clods crunching underfoot hissed in Chester's ear.

Unable for the life of him to hatch a story, Chester knew he wouldn't answer. If he told the truth, the gunman might get the drop on Mr. Dillon unawares in the marshal's office. Ratchet rammed the gun barrel into Chester's back just above his right hip.

Matt had reached Boot Hill and was scanning the graveyard for movement when he heard his friend cry out. _"Chester?"_ Matt shouted, peering into the darkness.

 _"Mr. Dillon, be careful! He's here!"_

 _"Got your friend here, Mr. Dillon!"_ Ratchet called. _"Say why he's been followin' me or I'll shoot his head off!"_

 _"Let him go, Ratchet! It's Beau Carter you want! Ratchet!"_

 _"You know where Carter is?"_ Ratchet yelled.

Matt drew his gun and moved toward Ratchet's voice, frowning in concentration as he tried to locate the gunman's position from the sound and take him from behind. Night clouds covered the moon and stars. The graveyard was too black to see the gunman or Chester.

 _"I'll tell you where Carter is if you let my friend go!"_

 _"No! You tell me where he is now or start diggin' Chester's grave! I'm not gonna wait all night!"_

The marshal saw them then—two dark forms outlined against the trees. The gunman's arm encircled Chester's shoulders, the gun in Ratchet's other hand held to Chester's head.

Matt pushed his gun barrel against the back of Ratchet's head, and clicked the hammer. The gunman started, and Matt felt a thrill down the length of his arm. "You're dead if you pull that trigger," Matt said. "Hold the gun out slow and drop it."

Chester didn't stir. Ratchet held his arm out straight to the side and let the gun fall.

"Turn around," Matt said. _"Slow."_

The gunman turned. Hot anger flashed through Matt, and he fought an impulse to raise his gun and smash Ratchet's face as hard as he could.

Chester dug his fingers into his back where Ratchet had rammed the gun.

"You alright, Chester?" Matt said.

"Yeah. He hit my back with his gun." Chester picked up Ratchet's gun from the ground and stuck it in his belt.

"Alright, get going," Matt growled at the gunman.

"Where're you takin' me?" said Ratchet. "Why don't you just kill me here?"

"He's a U.S. marshal is why," said Chester.

"You takin' me to jail?" Relief flooded the gunman's husky voice.

"Chester, go ahead of me to the office," Matt directed. "Hold Ratchet's gun ready as you go in the door. Take Carter's gun from him and lock him up."

"Yessir." Chester quickened his pace and soon disappeared from view.

"How come Carter aint already locked up if he's in jail," Ratchet said. "He turned lawman?"

"No," said Matt.

"Then why aint he already locked up."

"Shut up."

Holding Ratchet's gun, Chester sidled up to the marshal's office window. The front room was empty, the door to the jail open. Chester entered the office, moved to the jail cells, and leveled the gun as Carter lay on the bed reading a week-old copy of the Wichita Eagle.

"Stay still there," Chester ordered. "Don't reach for that gun, cuz I'll shoot."

Carter lowered the paper and widened his blank eyes at Chester. "What're you holdin' a gun on me fer."

His eyes fixed on Carter's immobile face, Chester stepped cautiously into the cell and bent to pick up Carter's gun in its holster on the floor next to the bed. " Jest rest easy," said Chester, backing out of the cell.

He closed the cell door and backed up to where the jail key hung on its hook.

"You can't lock me in," Carter said. "I aint done nothing."

"Jest rest easy," Chester repeated, turning the key in the lock. "I'll make coffee."

Carter moved to the cell door and gripped the bars. "Let me out, Chester."

Chester yawned, thinking of strong hot coffee and the stack of frontier melodramas under his bed. He started a fire in the stove and put the coffee pot on. After a moment, Carter returned to the bed, lay down and resumed reading the Eagle.

Absorbed in the newspaper, a steaming mug of coffee on the floor by the bed where his gun had been minutes ago, Carter didn't immediately notice when the marshal walked Yance Ratchet into the office at gunpoint.

Chester, who sat at the table sipping coffee and reading a thin cardboard-covered book titled _R_ ange _War_ , instantly rose, took the jail key from its hook, and swung open the other cell door.

Carter sprang up and moved to the bars as Ratchet walked by. As the gunman stopped and turned his head to look at Carter, Matt shoved Ratchet into the cell.

Chester jumped slightly and gave Matt a stunned look.

"Lock him in," Matt said gruffly.

Chester quickly turned the key in the lock.

Carter remained at the bars, staring at Ratchet. Ratchet sat on the bed and stared back out of long narrow eyes. "There were witnesses this time?" Carter asked the marshal.

"He took Chester hostage and threatened to kill him," said Matt. "That and the history of charges against this man and the number of times he's stood trial for robbery and murder are enough to get him locked up in Lansing prison while the state investigates his past. He might not hang, but he'll probably spend the rest of his life in a cage."

Carter nodded. "I weren't so _very_ afraid of him," he said.

"You did sleuthin' about him, Mr. Dillon?" said Chester.

"I sent a wire to the Pinkerton Agency while you were out tailin' 'im," Matt said.

"Now he's goin' to prison, I don't need to kill 'im," said Carter. "You can turn me loose, Marshal."

"Sorry, Carter," Matt said. "I'm leaving at daybreak to take Ratchet to Lansing. Chester will let you out when we're well out of town."

The marshal felt he'd conducted a ritual purification whenever he banished a gunman from town. Matt delivered Ratchet to the Lansing prison guards without incident, and the sun shone brighter on the journey home. Persuading Beau Carter to leave would complete the cleansing of Dodge.

Looking across Delmonico's dining room where Carter breakfasted alone, Matt worried that no amount of urging would convince the man to move on. Carter watched the diners intently, like he was at the Variety Theatre.

"He won't leave, Mr. Dillon." Chester sat at breakfast with Matt, Doc and Kitty. "He told me Dodge is a friendly town."

"Why're you talkin' to 'im, Chester," said Kitty.

"Well, I don't talk to _him_ , Miss Kitty. He talks to me."

"He _does,_ " Doc said. "Whereabouts?"

"Long Branch mostly," said Chester. "Pool room sometimes. And settin' outside the office."

"He sets out with you?" said Doc.

"Well there's not any much I can do about it, Doc," Chester said nonchalantly, mashing his heaping spoon of hominy into a gelatinous paste.

"That doesn't look very appetizing," Kitty said.

"It's sliming," said Chester.

The marshal rested his elbows on the table and sipped coffee meditatively, staring at Carter. "He doesn't strike me as a talker," Matt said. "He didn't say much in the jail."

"A gunman with a mangled shooting hand isn't a gunman anymore," said Doc. "Folks take no notice. He's not wearing a gun; I'm guessing he won't be trouble."

"He's already trouble," said Matt. "Chester could've been killed because of him."

"Speakin' of trouble," said Chester. "Cyrus Beacon jest walked in. He hates Carter more than you do, Mr. Dillon."

"I don't hate him, Chester."

Cyrus Beacon was a hulking blacksmith who'd once bumped into Chester coming out of Jonas' store. Cyrus had snarled, "Watch where yer goin'," and pushed Chester in the horse trough. Jonas saw what happened, helped Chester out of the trough, and warned him to stay away from Cyrus, who Jonas said was a "mean 'un." Jonas was scared to death, he said, every time Cyrus came in the store, and Chester should tell the marshal.

Chester had said "it weren't nothin' to bother Mr. Dillon," and went on his way.

Jonas of course included embellishments when he told Matt, who went directly to Cyrus' shop and said the blacksmith better stay out of Chester's way or Matt's next visit would be a lot less neighborly. Cyrus left Chester alone after that.

So when Cyrus pounded his fist on Carter's table, Chester said he "knew aforehand some such thing was comin' soon as Cyrus set foot in the door."

Carter didn't startle. With his habitual lack of expression, he looked up briefly into Cyrus' scowling face, put fifteen cents on the table to pay for his breakfast, and walked out.

"Carter's gonna end up killin' him," said Chester.

"Cyrus been houndin' 'im?" Matt asked.

"I seen 'im spill Carter's beer at the Long Branch. And Sam said Cyrus stuck his boot in Carter's path when he was walkin' to the bar. Sam said Carter fell flat on the floor, laid there a minute, then got up and dusted hisself off and bought a whiskey."

"Cyrus is a jack fool," said Doc. "A man like Beau Carter—only way he knows is to kill."

"The stationmaster says he's been target shooting left-handed out near the depot," Chester said.

In spite of the night at Boot Hill, Matt felt no qualm sending his partner out to tail Carter around town. No hawk-eyed Yance Ratchet, Carter likely posed a danger only to Cyrus.

"You see Carter wearing a gun headed anywhere but the depot to target shoot, let me know," Matt said.

Chester reported the next morning that Carter entered the Long Branch as the saloon opened, bought a whiskey bottle, and settled at a table with a deck of cards. He wore a gun at his left side, and asked Chester to play a hand and have a drink.

"I said no thanks and hightailed it back here to the office. I jest know he's waitin' for Cyrus."

"Marshal," Carter said, when Matt and Chester approached his table.

"Hand over your gunbelt, Carter," said Matt.

" I didn't do anything."

"You're gunnin' for Cyrus Beacon."

"He wants a fight," Carter said indifferently. "See Beacon don't scare me, Marshal. Now Ratchet's locked up, I ain't afraid." He examined the tabletop, his small fingers fiddling the cards. "Except of being far from a town," he said, his voice low. "Away from folks.

"I'll fight fair, Marshal. Been practicing with my left."

"Cyrus won't draw," Chester said. "You bein' a gunman, he'll figure you're faster left-handed than he is with his gun hand."

"He'll draw," Carter said. "I'll call him a coward."

"That's why I want your hide out of Dodge, Carter," said Matt. "There won't be any gunplay here. Now give me that belt."

"I'll just buy another gun when you're outta sight. Belt 'n slugs too. I got a lot of money bounty huntin'."

"No you won't," said the marshal. "I'll have Chester here tell every storekeeper in town not to sell you so much as a derringer.

"You're your own worst enemy, Carter. You're afraid of being alone, want to settle in a town, but you think like a wild animal."

Matt saw a hint of confusion in the blank eyes as Carter looked up from the cards, his mouth tight-lipped and twisting upward on one side. Carter glanced at Chester, who lowered his gaze to study his boots.

Carter gulped a mouthful of whiskey. "I don't know what else to do," he said. "He's hounding me."

"I'll tell Cyrus to leave you be," the marshal said "He'll know sure he'll go to jail if he looks at you sideways. He bothers you, you come to me, I'll handle it."

"You can trust that," said Chester. "That dub ain't plagued me once since Mr. Dillon told him to stay clear."

Carter looked up at Matt for a long moment, then slowly stood, unbuckled his gunbelt, and handed it to the marshal.

Unlike Doc, Matt didn't often argue with Chester. The marshal knew his friend held him in some esteem, and Matt counted on Chester's tractable nature. Their occasional disagreement frustrated Matt, tired Chester, and left the marshal admonishing himself to be patient. Chester suffered from two infirmities—a lame leg, and a tender disposition. A sensitive temperament was an incurable affliction in the eyes of frontiersmen conditioned to a hard life.

"You said more than once you can't stand gunmen," said Matt.

"Well I jest don't see what harm it could do," Chester said. "I don't understood at all why you're so riled over one little man with a gimp hand."

"The man was a bounty hunter. Who knows how many men he killed."

"I'm not askin' you to deputize him. Mr. Dillon, how can you 'spect a man not to think like a wild animal when no one will pass the time of day with him?"

"Chester, passing the time of day isn't the same as going _fishin'_ with him."

"It's not lonesome like when two go 'stead of one. Doc joshes me 'til I'm too wore down to raise my head, and anymore you never have time—"

"This is a U.S. marshal's office. You might forget that from the drift of your talk and the _company_ you've been keeping. I'm not gonna leave midday to go fishing."

Chester opened his mouth to retort, but his throat was constricted and no sound came out. He swallowed and tried again. "Was a time . . . ."

He heaved a breath and turned his head away from Matt. "So you're tellin' me not to go?"

"I have no right to tell you not to go."

"But you don't want me to."

 _"Chester,"_ Matt grated. "I just _said_ I didn't."

Chester glared into the marshal's eyes. Matt stared him down.

"Well I don't want to go anyway now," Chester said, his voice a harsh whisper. "It's spoilt I'll tell Carter to go hisself, he wants to go.

"I don't like him any much, Mr. Dillon; I couldn't. Jest wanted to go fishin' with another body is all." Chester took his hat from its peg and walked out.

Matt moved to the window. Though Front Street was quiet under the warm sun, the marshal felt sure he and Chester would know no peace until Beau Carter left Dodge. The day was so still that Matt heard Chester's limping gait as he walked away from the marshal's office.

Matt worried his partner would find no one to talk things through. He wouldn't go to Kitty. Kitty didn't understand why Chester had anything to do with Carter.

Which left Doc. No preacher or sage, as a healing man Doc knew only how to help his friends feel sound in body and easy in mind. He treated wounds, sicknesses, nervous conditions and melancholy. Doc might sit to checkers or cribbage with Chester, buy him a steak and a beer, listen with half an ear to his trouble as they drank coffee or sat out taking the air, and tell him not to worry, everything would work out.

Matt turned from the window as the door opened and Kitty walked in.

"Hello, Matt."

Kitty's presence made the marshal lighter and easier than anyone or anything. Even now, with Beau Carter and Chester's brooding weighing on him, Matt looked into her smiling face and realized of a sudden that things weren't so dark after all. She was by. He could talk to her, and see her again tomorrow.

"Hello, Kitty." Those thoughts flowed through Matt's mind like ripples in a clear stream under the sun, and he was unaware how his features had softened. Kitty regarded him quizzically. His rather pallid eyes had brightened to the hue of the sky on a hot summer day.

"Matt . . . ." Kitty touched her hands to his arms, her eyes searching his. His fingers closed around her arms. "Your eyes," she said. "They're different."

Matt kissed her. Not fervently, but like everyday, as though they greeted each other this way all the time. Matt almost never felt happy, and for a moment he was giddily bewildered. The next moment he thought himself a fool for not kissing her all the years he'd known her, every chance he got. He forcibly stopped himself from telling her he loved her. He wouldn't say the words as long as he wore the badge.

He released her arms. He knew it pleased her when he smiled big, so he flashed her the widest one he could manage. "How about some coffee?" he said.

"Well . . . _sure._ " Kitty laughed and hugged him. "Oh Matt, I do love you." She knew she sounded sentimental, but was too happy to care. She'd said it the first time, it was surprisingly natural, and she resolved to keep saying it whenever the opportunity came around.

"Alright, Kitty." Matt pulled gently out of her arms, and went to pour the coffee. "So what brings you here this fine spring day?" he said, thinking no tonic could hearten him more than that kiss. "No Long Branch business, no shopping?"

"I was hopin' you'd finally have time for a picnic with this Carter thing out of the way," Kitty said.

Matt's smile faded as they sat down at the table.

"What's wrong?"

"This Carter thing will never be out of the way, I'm afraid," Matt said. "I just had an argument with Chester. I lost my temper."

"Oh Matt," she said. "I thought there was something botherin' him when I passed him on my way here. He said he was headed for Doc's."

"All's well, then," Matt said. " Doc'll calm 'im."

"What'd you two argue about?"

"He wanted to go _fishin'_ with Beau Carter."

 _"What?"_

Matt nodded, sipping his coffee.

"Matt, I don't understand any of this with Carter. Chester despises gunmen; he's said it often enough."

"Well, I think he just wants someone to go fishin' with, and I never can get the time anymore. He doesn't want to go with Doc cuz Doc's joshin' wears him down."

"Then Doc'll have to quit joshin' him! Matt, I know." Kitty lay her small hand over Matt's big one as he held his coffee cup, making him want to kiss her again. "We'll all go on a picnic, now, today. _Without_ Beau Carter. Fishin', the whole works."

Matt nodded and smiled big as he could stretch his mouth.

The marshal held the reins with Kitty cozied up beside him, hugging his arm. The kiss had made her feel bold about giving him some loving if he'd take it. It seemed to please him; she'd never seen him smile so much.

Chester and Doc sat on the edge of the wagon bed among fishing poles, blankets, food baskets, and one shotgun tucked carefully along the side of the wagon bed in the corner.

"Seen Carter buyin' one dandy fishin' pole when I was pickin' up the roastin' ears from Jonas," said Chester.

Kitty frowned back at him over her shoulder. "No, Chester. That man is not coming on this picnic. Hurry Matt, let's get going before he shows up and wants to ride with us."

"Not with me in this wagon he ain't," said Doc. "I'll stay home, by golly. What's the matter with you, anyway, Chester?"

Matt chirruped to the horses, setting them off at a brisk trot. "Now don't start botherin' Chester, Doc," the marshal said. "He knows Carter's not comin' with us."

"He better not," said Doc. "I'll jump right out of this wagon."

"It's alright, the lot of you!" said Chester. "Cyrus Beacon was with Carter buyin' worms for the bait. Jonas got some young 'uns to dig a barrel full, still alive with the wiggle in 'em. That old Cyrus looked mild as a tame bear reachin' for the honey in a bees' nest."

"They made friends, did they!" said Doc. "Who woulda thought it? It takes all kinds to make a world and then some."

"Well, I hope they get on fine," Kitty said. "I honestly do."

"They deserve each other if you ask me," said Matt.

Kitty smiled up at him, squeezing his arm.

"What on earth are you warbling for, Chester," said Doc.

"I'm singin'."

"That's not singin'," Doc said. "There's no lyrics. That's caterwauling."

Matt and Kitty looked at each other and laughed.

Doc jerked his hat down over his eyes. "Oh quit it, Chester, for heaven sakes!"


End file.
